


The Cathartic Power of Mocking One's Leader

by poetesmaudits



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Crack, Gen, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, Les Amis de l'ABC Shenanigans, Romanticism, candlelit revelations in le musain, no angst just love, ridiculous names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 23:44:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20162098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetesmaudits/pseuds/poetesmaudits
Summary: In which Enjolras comes to accidentally reveal his first name, much to les Amis' hysteria.





	The Cathartic Power of Mocking One's Leader

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Evanaissante](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evanaissante/gifts).

> i'd like to make a formal apology to enjolras for this massacre.  
this fic is inspired by a conversation i had with my good friend Evanaissante.

**1830**

The tracts, lists and maps were, to his great annoyance, left discarded upon the old, wine stained table as all previous discussions regarding the involvement of the freemasons were abandoned. He could feel the heat crawl up his neck and into his cheeks despite himself, and he prayed for the dimmed evening light to not betray his current state of mind. The desire to loosen his cravat was all his mind could focus on at that moment as all eyes laid upon him. He cursed himself, but mostly he cursed his family.

Grantaire was the first one to react, of course, in a mad bark of laughter; “Your forename is _Louis-François_?” Enjolras attempted to not look too affronted, but found that it proved itself much more difficult than expected when the man was laughing in his face, and rather loudly for that matter. He crossed his arms. Soon Grantaire's laughter was accompanied by that of Bahorel, Courfeyrac, Joly, Bossuet, Prouvaire and even Feuilly. In fact, only Combeferre hadn't joined in and contrarily to all the other Amis, he sincerely looked apologetic. Grantaire then said; “Truly the wrong name for a Republican, my poor friend. Your parents could have named you Charles—or better: Louis-Philippe! It would have been all the same. Ah, the irony! I rejoice in this most unfortunate revelation! _Louis-François_!”

“One unfortunately does not choose one's name; you musn't mourn the one that was given to you, Enjolras, we here know that your first name does not reveal your political ideology,” Combeferre added, which, although well-intended, only seemed to aggravate the situation. Enjolras' entire face was burning with embarrassment in that moment, perhaps more than ever before in his twenty-four years of life. He had always been careful as to never reveal his most dreadful first name to the world, not even to his friends, too ashamed to ever speak of it. In fact he knew the name of none of les Amis. He knew only that Prouvaire was Jean by nature and Jehan by choice. He knew also that Combeferre's name began with an N.

“Not too bad, Combeferre—my _ass_!” Grantaire replied, loud. He was drunk; “Tell me, Louis-François, who did your parents have in mind when they graced you with such a beautiful name? That nobody Prince of Conti? Louis XVI? L'Universelle Aragne? The Sun King? Or did they think more about our dearest François I, whose rule was characterised by his passion for the arts, for Italy, for women, for war? Such a splendid, majestuous man who emptied the State's funds in the name of war with England, Charles V and Italy. Down with the monarchy, I say!”

Grantaire practically fell off his chair from his high spirits. Enjolras managed to regain control over his emotions and frowned, lips pouted just a little bit like they often were when he was displeased—perhaps the remnants of bourgeois mannerisms. He said; “what name should I bare in its stead, then?”

There was a very brief pause where they all looked at him a little bit confused. Joly offered him a faint smile as though not quite understanding but feeling sympathetic nonetheless.

“Are you being serious right now?” Bahorel eventually asked.

“Yes.”

“You want us to suggest names to replace Louis-François?”

“Yes.”

Grantaire was once more the first to speak, smirking in his glass of wine which he emptied in one go, much to Enjolras' mortification; “How about Napoléon?”

Courfeyrac face palmed.

“Come on friends,” Feuilly said, trying obviously very hard not to let a smile conquer his face, “let's be a little bit more serious. What names are befitting for Enjolras?”

“I do quite like the name Théophraste,” said Courfeyrac.

“A nightmare to pronounce when you're drunk,” added Lesgle.

“What about Marie?”

“Oh please, Combeferre,” said Prouvaire while lighting his pipe, “Marie is no suitable name nowadays! You might as well call yourself Louis-François.”

Another voice immediately intervened, indignation clear in its tone; “Well, thanks, my second name is Marie,” when Enjolras tried to determine who had said this, it proved itself impossible, for a sudden uproar had risen among the men as all began discussing names together, frowning, laughing, joking. All order was definitely gone.

Bossuet casually offered: “Héloisius?”

“No.”

“Alfred? Alphonse?" supplied Joly, then, when seeing Enjolras' unimpressed face, with more fervour: "Alvise? Alcide? Alcibiade?”

“Out of the question.”

Bahorel, grinning before stuffing his own pipe and lighting it commented; “Frédéric-Guillaume is quite sobre.”

“_No_. Morbleu- absolutely _not_!”

Courfeyrac tried again, more jokingly this time, “And Théodebert?”

Jehan immediately jumped in, laughing now, “A most beautiful name! May I offer in the same vein Godomar, Wilecoc and Arculf?"

"One must admit that the Francs were very strong at finding good names-"

Whoever had spoken was interupted by Feuilly who offered; “Pierre?”

“Too working class for our poor little bourgeois here, Feuilly,” Grantaire commented, voice heavy with sarcasm.

Combeferre; “Népucomène? Démosthène?”

“Zéphir?”

“Childeric?”

“Zébulon?”

“Cornichon?”

“Ivanhoë?”

“Robespierre-Suprême?”

“Camille?”

“Thorgal?”

“Jean-Jacques?”

“Phébus?”

“Apollon?”

“Achille?”

“_No_.”

“To come back to Théophraste and Théodebert; in the same genre there's also Théophile, Théodule, Théobald, Théodore, Théocl-”

“We get it, Courfeyrac.”

The man in question rolled his eyes and pressed his chin in the palm of his hand, giving his famous angry pout to the one of his friends who had so rudely interrupted him. He murmured something to himself which Enjolras didn't quite catch, but before he could dwell on the matter any longer, another voice had boomed across the room once more, capturing his attention.

“How about Léopold? Fashionable, bourgeois... the name of the potential future king of Belgium...” Enjolras fell back in his chair in a very similar fashion to Napoleon at Fontainebleau in the famous painting by Delaroche.

“I beg of you, _please_ cease your monarchy stories, capital R.”

“Other good composed names are Philippe-Emmanuel, Claude-François, and my very favourite (that may or may not be an invention of mine): Léo-Paul.”

“I'm begging you to stop Bahorel.”

“Take something ancient! Like Casworon, Austregisel or Wandregisilus.”

Enjolras clutched his head in his hands, elbows resting on the table. He felt a pounding headache confidently settle in the winding of his brain as every one of his friends added another ridiculous or ill-fitting name to the list, and while he knew that some were taking this seriously and were genuinely trying to help, those who seized this opportunity with immense joy to mock him made him want to grab his hat and coat and to walk back straight home. He felt Combeferre's hand on his shoulder and his gentle, kind voice asked if he was feeling all right.

“No, no I'm not all right,” he answered in a sigh, ripping his head out of his hands, “I'm done with all these... these orchidoclastes.”

Bossuet made a point to look offended and waved his arms violently enough to almost tip his chair backwards, “Is this how we thanks our friends for coming up with a string of purely brilliant names? I did not know! Long live solidarity and fraternity among friends!”

Enjolras didn't bother reacting and simply remained like this for a moment, in this state of extreme aggravation that went beyond any aggravation he had ever felt towards his beloved—albeit annoying—friends. There was a moment where one could have heard the flies fly, before he braced himself, sat back up to assume his position of leader of les Amis de l'ABC, and Combeferre's hand fell limply off his shoulder. When Enjolras spoke, his voice was calm and stable again; “At the next meeting, I want this conversation forgotten, obliterated. I was decidely cursed to live with the name my parents have given me, there is not much one can do about it after all. We have lost a lot of valuable time tonight, time that could have been spent planning, and that was instead spent joking. I have decided to let it go this time, for I understand the tension laying upon our shoulders is quite overwhelming in the current Parisian climate. Many of us are still trying to come to terms with what happened just months ago, last July. There are scars—both mental and physical—that shall remain etched upon us forever as a perpetual reminder of this defeat that History shall remember for what it is. You here are all my friends and I do value every single one of you's devotion to the Cause,” his eyes landed on Grantaire before they fleetingly looked elsewhere, “this most certainly is also why I have let you all laugh at me tonight.”

“Bless,” said Joly before taking a long sip of wine.

Courfeyrac nodded, “We tend to neglect our true feelings in these dark ages, Enjolras has spoken truth. But may I remind you of the importance of amusement and friendship? There is no humanity without laughter, there is no light without happiness. Savour every moment of true bliss in your lives, citizens, for these moments are too often gone in the blink of an eye. I shall remember this night of amusement to some, of perhaps grief to others,” he looked at Enjolras as he said this, “And I thus raise my glass tonight to friendship, but more importantly, to Enjolras' tragic first name which we shall never mention ever again, perhaps more out of fear for our own lives than out of courtesy. Cheers, my very dear friends, to friendship and to Enjolras!”

Enjolras did not raise his glass but watched as all his friends gladly followed Courfeyrac, smiles spread across their faces and exacerbated by the faint glow of the flickering candle lights. He felt himself smile as well, the uncontrollable sort that you cannot restrain no matter how hard you try, that crawls and settles for an indefinite amount of time but that cannot be erased in the present time, the type that is put there by those you love and cherish with all your heart, no matter how irritating and exasperating they can sometimes be.

A calm chatter fell in the room while everyone spoke among themselves in small groups of two or three, and Enjolras watched, momentarily satisfied. He could feel Combeferre's eyes upon him but refused to look at him, focusing instead on Jehan who was telling an anecdote of some sort, quietly and yet with very dramatic waves of his hands to add flavour to the tale. Feuilly was already packing his belongings as though ready to leave.

Bahorel's deep voice suddenly echoed loudly across the room as he spoke one last time; “I got it! Liberté Enjolras!"

**Author's Note:**

> an orchidoclaste is a pompous, untranslatable word used to refer to dickheads.


End file.
